


Killer code 11

by unmeiboy



Series: Killer code [2]
Category: Johnny's Entertainment, Kis-My-Ft2 (Band), Yamapi - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Gunplay, M/M, Mild Gore, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spies & Secret Agents, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:03:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4798862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unmeiboy/pseuds/unmeiboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kitayama is an infiltrator; not trained to meet the heavy artillery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killer code 11

Kitayama walks down a dark back alley, keeps his head cool and his steps calm. He knows they are around, that they are looking for him, that he has to draw as little attention to himself as he can. Infiltration is his specialty, so making himself look like he belongs in whatever situation he finds himself in isn't that difficult. This time though, he's not on the inside; he's on the battlefront of a war. Just one step too far and he'll be falling down the trenches of the enemy.

As he walks he sticks one hand down his right pocket, feels the small, light box against his skin. Unconsciously he speeds up, as if his body is reacting to the mere thought of being found, and when he withdraws his hand he only feels a weight much heavier than the box pulling on his pants. He turns around a corner, into another dark alley, draws a deep breath and continues walking. There is a goal, a place for him to reach, but he can't rush, or they will find him.

His heart jumps when the transmitter in his ear comes to life with a sudden sound; that's his only reaction, though, so well trained that the natural instinct to look as surprised as he is no longer is a part of his behavior.  
“K, are you still with us?” It's Kitayama's commander speaking. He taps the mic attached to his collar twice, and the commander continues. “They caught up with Agent F, we lost him when they tore the communication device off.”

Agent F has one of the three boxes circulating. Jewelry boxes, small enough to fit in a pocket, the kind that would contain expensive rings. But the box Agent F is carrying is empty. So is the third. The only one that contains what is to be delivered, is the one in Kitayama's pocket.

“We haven't caught any movement since then, but expect them to come for you once they open the box. Agent Y has reported that he's not being followed.” That makes Kitayama stop next to the nearest lamp post, steps behind it into the shadows.  
“So far nothing here.”  
The commander doesn't sound convinced. “Keep us updated.” Kitayama doesn't answer because he knows he doesn't have to, instead steps back onto the street. The transmitter stays silent long enough that he would think the connection had been cut, if it hadn't been for the muffled voices in his ear. “K?”  
“Yeah?” Kitayama breathes, loud in the silence of the back alley, only the sound of his own shoes against the asphalt echoing louder.  
“Agent F just connected to us. They've sent out Yamashita.” Kitayama freezes on the inside, because he knows who that is.

Yamashita. He's not the leader of the organization looking for the item in Kitayama's pocket, but he's a key person.

_“He's twisted,” Kitayama had been told after he had been done reporting his completed mission. He had asked about Yamashita, a name that had come up several times during the time he was infiltrating, and always in unpleasant contexts. “He has killed a bunch of ours too. And he doesn't just kill, you know, he enjoys it, and he never fails. But you'll never see him, don't worry. None of our infiltrators have met him, and we'll never infiltrate them again.”_

Kitayama never asked why they would never try to get inside the organization again, because he could imagine what had gone wrong. Which actually frightens him, and fright is a feeling he thought he no longer knew. But it is there, makes his heart beat faster; but he isn't about to let it make him panic.  
“K, there's a bike ready for you three blocks from where you are.” The commander has his location via GPS, through a tracker sewn into his suit. “Head for point C to begin with.”

Vehicles aren't Kitayama's strong side, he prefers his feet on the ground but wheels have some advantages. Like speed, and he'll take that bike if it means he can get away before Yamashita catches up with him. Just three blocks, and then he'll be there. _Breathe_ , he tells himself, _it'll be fine_.

Yet every little sound makes his muscle tense up, so much more alert now that it is highly likely that he will be chased. A car passes on what must be the other side of the houses to his left; Kitayama puts on a neutral face and walks with eyes straight forward as he crosses to the next block. There's no car in sight, and he hopes it was just someone coincidentally passing by. Two blocks left, and he'll be there. He's on a small road now, enough that a large car can't possibly make its way through. Then he thinks he hears steps, timed perfectly with his own. Without looking back he stops; so does the steps, and that's when he knows.

A whisper makes it way into his ears, a whisper he shouldn't have been able to hear if he hadn't been trained to whisper in exactly the same way. That's why he was chosen for this, and why he accepted the mission. It's far from what he's used to doing, but he has the skills to make it. At least he thought he did. He doubts it now. Because the very second he starts walking again, he knows that they know, hears the steps again and they're speeding up, exceeding his own calmer rhythm.

He starts running.

Behind him his pursuer is also running, and the whispers are now fully audible; Kitayama hears him giving orders to someone that must be waiting ahead.  
“Shit, shit, shit,” Kitayama mutters as he runs, tries to sort his thoughts out. He knows the area, has studied the map until he can read it within his mind, and he knows that he needs to shake these people off. If they have cars, which they likely do, a bike won't outrun them if they're this close to him already. The end of this road is already visible, and he knows that if he goes right, he will find himself on an equally small road that will eventually lead him around the block if he continues turning left after that. With roads and corners still circulating in his head he brings up his mic with one hand, connects to the headquarter. “They're here.”  
The commander is ice cold. “You know what to do.”

 _Easier said than done_ , Kitayama thinks, because while he has run before, he has never been in a situation like this. But he's not one to give up, not even when he hears the man behind him closing in. He just has to make it out of this alley, then he can turn the environment to favor himself.

He hears the sound of the car before it comes into view. It's too late to stop when it does, when it halts to block the way out of the alley, and Kitayama takes a chance. He jumps. Onto the car hood, steadies himself with one hand and one foot before he slides off it on the other side. His running pursuer seems to not follow him in the same way; instead there's the sound of a door opening, then a female voice.  
“Don't lose him,” she warns, but the only response she gets is a low laugh.

That's him, it can't be anyone other than him. Yamashita. Kitayama has no time to look behind himself to check, but then again, even if he did he wouldn't know by his appearance. Instead he rushes to the right, then left, sees a much too long road in front of him, and hopes that Yamashita isn't carrying weapons.

It's odd though, that he doesn't hear any increase in speed. Neither is there any signs of him being out of breath despite running. It feels as though Yamashita is jogging after him, perhaps waiting for him to tire, like a clever predator. A couple of times he thinks he's gotten rid of him, when he's so far behind that he can't hear him nor see him over his shoulder when he turns around a corner, but then he's back again, and Kitayama starts feeling like a mouse played with by a kitten, whose mother is instructing.  
“K,” a voice in his ear startles him, “they've hacked us, they're tracking you. Leave the mic on.”

There's no need for specific directions; Kitayama has to slow down a little bit to get his arms out of his suit jacket. He throws it when he turns to the right around next corner. He's not supposed to, but if Yamashita is far enough behind, he could loop around these buildings and end up behind him, instead of in front. It's a simple idea, easy to see through yet worth a try. It fails, and after throwing the tracker off along with his suit jacket, Yamashita speeds up and doesn't let him out of sight.

He must be there, it should be the block across this street, a larger one where cars actually pass once in a while. And yes, he sees it, a black bike parked ready to go; without a thought Kitayama rushes straight onto it, turns his head in time to be blinded by an approaching car but gets to the other side unharmed. His heart is beating so hard it could be making dents on the inside of his chest, but he doesn't stop. If he barely made it over, that car might have slowed Yamashita down. But just as that thought crosses his mind there's the sound of a gunshot. It hits, but not Kitayama; it knocks the bike over, and then there's another shot, puncturing it's deck.  
“Bike down,” he speaks into his mic, humor blending in without him thinking of it. “Help me, damn it.”  
“I've sent people, they'll be there soon. A couple minutes.” The commander still seems calm, even though he must be just as desperate as Kitayama. He has seen it, has seen the commander giving orders during other missions, and it's not even close to what it sounds like.  
“I'm not going to make it another couple minutes, he fast as fuck and even steadier with that damn gun.”  
“You'll have to.”

He runs for point C, although he's aware he's not going to make it all the way unless he gets on a vehicle but if there's people coming, he might as well take the smaller roads until they get there. He needs to get rid of Yamashita, as he assumes his companions will come by car; if he punctured the bike deck that easily, the car won't be much harder. It's better if Yamashita loses him before they meet up. A couple minutes.

The thing is, for every second that passes, he hears the sound of running footsteps coming closer and closer, and even though he takes sharp turns and alleys one would normally not even think of, they don't go away. Then at once they stop, but the lack of the sound doesn't comfort Kitayama the slightest. He rushes for the next corner, but this alley is a little bit longer and Yamashita must have been studying the maps just as closely as he has. _Please, please, please_ , he hears himself thinking, then he distantly hears the commander telling him where to go, where the help is going to be, and he's so, so close to that damn corner when a gunshot goes off.

Kitayama falls to the ground with a loud groan, barely catches himself on one arm before he bangs his head against the asphalt. His breathing is elevated when he tries to rise up, which he manages, but only with the help of his arms. There's a burning pain in his left calf, and he can't put any weight on the same leg. There's no way he'll make it now.  
“He got my leg,” he hurries to tell the commander; he can hear slow steps approaching. He continues with his location, tries to back-read the map inside his head and thinks he's able to give the correct directions. Maybe he'll make it out alive.

By the time he finishes speaking Yamashita is right behind him. A rough shove between his shoulder blades and he's down on the asphalt again, wincing as his leg hits the ground. A quick glance down and he spots the hole in his pants; blood is starting to seep from it.  
“Nice to meet you,” a deep voice says, in a tone that makes him sound bored. “You're surprisingly quiet.” Kitayama wants to bite back that he's doing his job, that he's had training to be everything but loud, but when he turns his head up to glare at Yamashita, he finds himself mute.

Yamashita seems to be about Kitayama's own age, he's taller, and everything except what Kitayama had expected him to be. He's got a neat haircut complete with a brown dye-job, an expensive-looking earring, he's clean-shaved, and if Kitayama hadn't known what he did for a living, he could have taken him for a model. He's handsome. Only his eyes are unpleasant, cold and expressionless as they look down on him.  
“I said nice to meet you. At least introduce yourself.” Kitayama keeps glaring at him, tries to get up again. This time a hand grabs his shirt once he's halfway up, and he finds himself being pulled up instead. Yamashita is strong. He never lets go of the shirt, only fishes a police ID out of Kitayama's chest pocket. “Fake, isn't it?”

It's true. Kitayama's organization has nothing to do with the police whatsoever, but during this mission, it had benefited them to pretend so. Only the initials on Kitayama's fake ID are correct, the rest of the name is made up.  
“Kato Hiroto?” Yamashita laughs, an emotionless mocking laugh. “I though your name was Kitayama. Kitayama Hiromitsu, was it? What do your friends call you?” This is ridiculous. Kitayama tries to raise a hand to punch him, but it gets caught even before he manages to get any strength into his fist. “Mikkun?” He laughs again, and Kitayama clenches his hand together tighter, because his guess is correct. “You're cute, Mikkun. You must be a good one, if you get to handle something this important even though you're so young. Unless the age on this is actually true. 29, huh.”

Kitayama nearly rolls his eyes, because he gets told often that he looks younger than he is, but even if he had done so, Yamashita wouldn't have noticed. He's pulling him along to a side alley; the further they walk the more confused Kitayama becomes. Every corner looks the same when his vision is clouded by the ache in his leg, and although it doesn't take them long to arrive at a back alley even smaller than the one where he was shot, he no longer knows where he is. Looking at the surroundings doesn't help, shadows everywhere as they're lit up by a single blinking lamp post.  
“Don't look surprised, I know you told your people where you are.” Kitayama tenses, because he remembers now that he still has the mic on, and that the headquarter is listening to this. “How about we get rid of this?” Yamashita leans in close, taps the transmitter in Kitayama's ear. “Or do you want them to hear what I do with you?”  
“Leave it,” Kitayama bites back, earns a smirk that makes him feel a lot weaker than he wants to be.  
“No. I'd rather not.” He takes hold of the transmitter, then the mic, detaches them carelessly before he drops both of them to the ground and crushes them under his shoe. In the same manner of carelessness he shoves Kitayama onto his knees. “Now, I want you to obey me, or I'll have to do something drastic.” He reaches inside his coat, pulls out a black metallic gun. “Put your hand in your pocket.”

It's not until now, with a loaded gun pointed to him so closely that he can see the muzzle clearly, that he realizes that maybe he should have stuck to infiltrating. He knows he can't get away unless his organization finds him, and given who Yamashita is, it seems unlikely that they will. At least before he gets a bullet put in his brain. This is an execution, and there's nothing he can do except use the skills he knows has worked before.

So Kitayama obeys, puts one hand down his left pocket.  
“The other one,” Yamashita hisses at him, and while Kitayama considers being stubborn for a moment he brings the gun to his face. The metal is cool as it pats his cheek, and it blanks out his mind for a couple seconds. “Put your hand in your pocket and show me what's in it.” When he doesn't move immediately, Yamashita pushes the gun harder against his cheek. “ _Now._ ”

Initially, it's not the gun that makes him do it. It's the expressionless eyes, then the cold smile that pulls on Yamashita's lips once he moves. He wouldn't admit it, but it frightens him. The lack of emotion combined with the stories he has heard, that no longer would surprise him the slightest if they were true. And he doesn't want to turn out like the bodies he has read about in the reports. He can hear his pulse beat loud in the back of his head as he moves his arm; the jewelry box is a little warm against his fingers when he grips it, and he hesitates again when he's about to pull it out.  
“You know, if you refuse I could always take it from your dead body.” Yamashita pulls the hammer back, the gun clicks once, and Kitayama feels a drop of sweat run down the back of his neck. He feels panic rising inside him now, rushing throughout his body along with the blood his heart so desperately pumps. That's not an empty threat, like it usually is, Kitayama knows it. This one _will_ kill him if he has to.  
“If I give it to you, will you let me live?” It's the first thing he says to Yamashita, and his words are greeted by a curious smile, however the eyes don't light up.  
“Why don't you try and see?” Yamashita speaks down to him, then lifts one foot to kick his injured leg. It sends currents of pain through Kitayama, like barbed wire being pulled through his flesh, hooking into it to be pulled loose again, and he feels his eyes water with tears.  
“Please,” he gasps, glares up at Yamashita through his bangs, and this time there's something different in his eyes. Still cold, but the edges around them sharpen a little when he smirks, again pats Kitayama's cheek with the side of the gun barrel.

This is his chance, though. All he can do now is to convince Yamashita not to kill him. The pain in his leg still burns, worse if anything, even though he can still feel the adrenaline in his body. The leg of his pants is wet and sticky with his blood, he doesn't need to look to know, but he turns his focus away from it. Instead Kitayama tries to make his hand to stop shaking when he pulls the little box out, yet for some reason, he doesn't succeed. He holds it in one hand, feels Yamashita study the item, but then he leans back, gun gone from his face.  
“Open it.” Kitayama brings his other hand up to the box, both of them trembling as he presses the lock and it clicks open. He can't see it himself, but he knows exactly what Yamashita's eyes are locked to. “Can't see,” he sing-songs, pats Kitayama's cheek again before he moves the gun to his hand, taps the back of the hand he has under the box to make him raise it. And he does, raises it until it's at the height of his own head, keeps his eyes on Yamashita.

He smiles. Yamashita smiles, and this time it almost looks genuine. Until he gives another kick to Kitayama's bleeding leg, then reaches out for the box.  
“I do,” he whispers, in a tone that is nothing but for mocking, and Kitayama doesn't understand at first, tears filling his eyes again and pain blocking out every other thought. “Aw, baby, don't cry,” he says then, takes the box from Kitayama and as he makes a big deal out of doing so, it sinks in.

It looks like a proposal.

A twisted one, in a dark alley, under blinking light, blood on the asphalt and a gun in one of Yamashita's hands, but there he is on his knees, holding out an expensive-looking jewelry box with tears threatening to spill over as Yamashita accepts it. And that's exactly what Yamashita must have wanted it to look like.

Just the thought is humiliating; Yamashita is playing with him, has been from the start. Part of him wants to take it back, he feels his fingers itching to reach out and grab it straight out of Yamashita's hand. They twitch in a subconscious attempt to act, but there's so much going on in his mind that they don't get all the way there.

Despite the forced proposal setting, of course there's no ring, but Yamashita looks satisfied when he studies the content of the box closer.  
“This is it, huh.” He holds the box in the same hand as the gun; there's no way Kitayama will be able to run anyway, they both know it. With his free hand he picks up the SD card, and it looks just as heavy as Kitayama had felt it in his pocket. There's nothing on it, no writing whatsoever, just plain, black plastic with metal reflecting the flickering light from the lamp post. It's only visible for a very short moment, until Yamashita puts it back in its case and clicks the lid close.

“So, that leaves you.” Yamashita sticks one hand inside his coat where he presumably puts the jewelry box in a pocket before he reaches even further; there's a much heavier item in his hand when he pulls it back out, and Kitayama no longer dares to hope that he is going to make it out of this alive. A silver handgun, smaller than the one in Yamashita's other hand. It wouldn't have made the situation any scarier if it hadn't been for the unusually long barrel. Kitayama has seen those before. A light gun with an integrated suppressor. His comrades aren't even going to find his body. “Do you want to live?”

Kitayama doesn't answer, busy trying to keep his nerves calm and his eyes on both of the muzzles pointing at him while ignoring the ache in his knees on the hard asphalt, the burn in his wounded leg. And he doesn't have time to react before the silver gun is pointed away from his face as it releases a bullet, with a sound so weak that it would have made him laugh if he had been at a shooting range trying out new weapons. It hits his already bleeding calf and he slumps onto the asphalt, knees and thighs giving in as pain sears through him.  
“I said do you want to live?” Yamashita speaks louder now, nearly sounds excited, but when Kitayama forces his eye open to look him in the face, he hasn't changed a millimetre expression-wise. “Answer,” he continues, “or do you want me to fuck up your other leg as well?”  
“Yes,” he nods, breath ragged as he attempts to control himself, “I want to live.” With a content sound Yamashita places the gun back where he got it from, and Kitayama allows himself to turn his head away to check on his leg. The fabric of his pants is soaked in blood from his knee and down, there's two obvious holes in them and he's pretty sure the bullets are still lodged in his muscle. He's just happy he's wearing dark pants, since although he has seen a fair share of fresh injuries (not to mention dead bodies, at least in pictures), he's not sure he could handle seeing his own leg open and bleeding.

But the next thing Yamashita asks sounds nearly sweet; or at least enough so for Kitayama to react. “Does it hurt?” There's the rustling of fabric, just for a second or two, but when he looks up he thinks he sees something that makes his heart jump in a different kind of fear. “I can't let you go just like that, you know,” he continues as he moves his hand to cup Kitayama's face, “You'd just run off to your superiors and tell them all about me.” A thumb comes up to brush against his lower lip, follows his movement when Kitayama tries to pull away from it. “Unless there are things involved that you wouldn't want them to hear.”

He can hardly believe it when Yamashita takes that hand away, lifts his other, the one with the larger black gun, and moves closer to his face.  
“How did you land a mission like this?” For a moment Kitayama thinks he has changed the direction of his monologue entirely, but then the barrel of the gun is under his chin making him lift his head. “You're not the type I'd put on it.”  
“I deserved it,” he bites back, knows that he maybe shouldn't argue with him but he can't keep himself from it.  
“ _Deserved_ it?” Yamashita laughs. “With those pretty lips?” The gun leaves his skin, but only for the brief second before it touches his lips. It's cool like the night air around them, cold and hard just like the feeling that makes itself at home inside Kitayama; the feeling of staring right at his own inevitable death. The gun is cocked from before, just the slightest pressure on the trigger and Kitayama will have a bullet in his head instead of his leg or any other body part where it's less likely he'll die instantly. But no, the muzzle is pressed against his lips and he has a scary idea of exactly what Yamashita is implying. “Why don't you open up and convince me I should let you live?”

As the pressure on his lips increases he stubbornly refuses to part them, until Yamashita gives him another light kick to the leg, makes him inhale sharply in pain. The next thing he knows is the gun barrel pushing into his mouth, the metallic taste mixed with what he has only smelled before; the smell of a recently fired gun, only stronger when it's on his tongue. He feels the bullet hole with the tip of his tongue as it pushes further inside, tries to pull back, lean away, but Yamashita moves a hand to his head to keep him in place.  
“You're not convincing me,” he hums as he pulls the gun back, pushes it back in; Kitayama opens up enough to not have his teeth scrape against it, then closes his eyes and actually sucks when he catches Yamashita shifting his fingers around the trigger. “That's better.”

It's so surreal that Kitayama's mind tries to tell him it's not actually happening. Sure, Yamashita is a psycho, he had expected as much because he has heard it, seen it. The picture of a bloody mess that had once been a living agent. The story that a young woman had told after allegedly having escaped him; he had kept her in a walk-in closet, half naked and starving, and there was no doubt she had been abused. Not so unsurprising, she was also found dead barely a day after she walked out of their headquarters.

Still, he had not expected this. Not even the encounter, but more than that he definitely did not expect to be shot in the leg, pushed to his knees to have a gun shoved in his mouth by a guy with an unchanging facial expression and an unmistakable bulge in his pants. Turns out Yamashita doesn't just enjoy to hurt, to be feared, to kill. He gets off on it.

“Good boy,” he praises, threads fingers into his hair and the next thing Kitayama knows he's being pulled forward as Yamashita pushes the barrel deeper inside, and again his eyes tear up but because he's choking, not because he's in pain. Yamashita is strong, easily holds him in place despite his struggling (and Kitayama is fairly well-built, although currently injured), guides his head along the weapon with a long exhale that makes it sound a bit as though he's getting physical pleasure out of it. “You'd be ashamed to admit this, wouldn't you?” Yamashita lets go of the brown strands, lets him lean back but continues shoving the gun between his lips with a strength that makes Kitayama even more concerned about that sensitive trigger. The barrel is wet with his saliva, slides between his lips easier now, and that metallic taste is so spread in his mouth that he barely feels it anymore, but the awareness of just how lethal this weapon is never goes away. “Treating the enemy the way you treat your boss...”

At that comment Kitayama glares up at him in a way that even to himself feels like his last resistance, but he does it, because that is not true and he isn't going to be living his last moments agreeing with lies.  
“Shh.” Yamashita pulls the gun back, and Kitayama gasps for breath once it's no longer blocking his mouth; the muzzle is resting on his lower lip, but even so he feels somewhat relieved. “I'm not done with you yet.”

The clattering of a belt buckle being undone is so out of place that it's all Kitayama hears, until it stops to be replaced by the sound of a zipper and if there had been any doubts about what Yamashita had been hinting at, there is none left when he takes half a step closer as he pushes his pants out of the way.  
“Come on,” he half-laughs, one hand on the erection he's brushing against Kitayama's lips, “I thought you wanted to live?” Two taps to his cheek with the barrel of the gun and he's opening his mouth; Yamashita's cock is so different compared to his gun that Kitayama nearly welcomes the feeling of it. Hot, smooth but soft, everything that metal isn't, tastes of sex like he has tasted it from his girlfriends' mouths, but he's not anywhere close to enjoying it like he had those times. He tries to lean away, just like before, but the muzzle of the gun comes up right against his skin, under his jaw, then pushes upwards and it's _painful_. Once he stills the pressure weakens, instead Yamashita returns his hand to the dark brown hair it was gripping earlier, holds him firmly as he gives a couple of light thrusts.  
“That's not how you get a promotion.” Yamashita's voice has dropped an octave, but his eyes are still more empty than not. “Do it yourself.”

For a second Kitayama freezes, not sure how to handle his situation, but the following seconds consist of a gun being pointed to his temple and he throws all rationality aside. He's certain he's not going to satisfy Yamashita, but to be fair he's probably not looking for physical satisfaction anyway, so all he does is mimic what he has been on the receiving end of. Bobs his head, shallowly, flicks his tongue against the tip when he pulls back; lets Yamashita take over the rhythm when the grip on his hair tightens. There's a shove to the side of his face, by the gun, and he takes it as a hint when Yamashita mutters something unintelligible, assumes it's correct when he sucks and doesn't get another shove.  
“Enthusiastic, aren't we?” he purrs, in a way that could be mistaken for affection if it hadn't been for the entire situation, a harsh tug on Kitayama's hair to complete it. There's no longer any guiding movements for him, instead a thrust and he almost chokes when Yamashita pushes so deep inside that his lips touch the base of his cock. It's slow at first, enough that Kitayama manages to breathe properly through his nose every time he pulls back, but by the time he's getting his mouth fucked for real he's gasping for air when he gets the chance, eyes burning when he chokes, a mix of saliva and pre-come dribbling past his lips. Yamashita is still silent, the only hint of arousal being the way his breathing comes quicker the faster he goes; he actually groans when he gives the few last, sharp thrusts before he pulls back enough that only the head of his cock is left inside Kitayama's mouth as he comes.

The muzzle of the gun is immediately back under Kitayama's jaw, making sure he stays in place even as Yamashita takes a step back, with a taunting smile that doesn't make the rest of him seem more human.  
“Swallow,” he hisses, plays with his fingers around the trigger as he lets the gun dig into his soft neck; Kitayama does as told, despite feeling so nauseous his stomach is threatening to protest. Yamashita seems to be watching his Adam's apple bob, and once it stops the pressure of the gun leaves him, along with the click of it being uncocked. Kitayama breathes out, allows himself to feel a tiny spark of relief now that the gun is pointed away from him, throws a glance at his leg while Yamashita appears to be getting his pants in order. He's in a pool of blood, his other leg as wet as his injured, and he's somewhat happy he's down on the asphalt since he's positive he would faint if he tried to rise up.  
“You know what?” Yamashita says. “I'm not taking any risks.”

Kitayama rapidly turns his head away from his leg to find the silver handgun from before pointed straight to his forehead; barely has time to recognize it before he hears the faint sound as it fires.


End file.
